


Hollow Knight Drabbles

by larkshymm



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-08 03:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17378654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkshymm/pseuds/larkshymm
Summary: A collection of smaller pieces and drabbles, focused on various characters etc. Not tagging everyone/thing because that'd be... a mess.





	1. scrioscare

**Author's Note:**

> tosses confetti 
> 
> not much of a collection right now but SO IT BEGINS
> 
> prompt taken from a list [here](https://hollowthyme.tumblr.com/post/181884395238/writing-challenge-prompt-list)
> 
> my current goal is to once a month for one week, write 500 words every day. So far most of what's been written this month is stuff i can't post yet, but i've got a bit I can toss here! :D
> 
> Characters: Quirrel, The Knight  
> Tags: extremely minor infection grossness/canon-typical violence, mild disregard for timeline

 

> _1: scrosciare - the action of rain pouring down or waves hitting rocks and cliffs_

 

The rain never ends. Its pattering fills this place; it runs down the dark, grand spires crowed with nail-sharp spines, cascades down aqueducts in shimmering rows alongside the paved roadways, impressively intact despite the years and years of neglect.

  
… This city was beautiful before.

  
Quirrel does not know how he can picture it as it must have been so clearly, but from his lookout high above, he looks down and can almost see it: the roads, milling with bugs of all sizes and dress—the visitors with their umbrellas, none of the native bugs would use them—filling a bustling marketplace lit bright with strings of lumaflies, little hatchlings scampering in the plazas with their pets, guards watching fondly beneath all their pomp and armor. It was a city bursting with life. His eyes find a low wall, half-repaired, and he can imagine the menderbug who would have worked there, their buckets of plaster and piles of smooth-carved stone beneath a little tarp to keep the rainwater out of their work.

  
He does not know how he can picture it, but he does not question it. The images are pleasant and come to him freely, unlike those he has seen before, in other, less-ordered reaches of the kingdom.

  
He lets himself sit and watch, claws on the glass that shimmers with sheets of water.

  
He can _almost_ ignore the husks, here.

  
Part of him marvels at how proud they must have been, how devoted to protecting their charge for their bodies to continue their duty after their passing.

  
The other part of him spies a long-dead sentry’s corpse stir, sees the orange leak from between the plates of their shell, sees the flash of their orange eyes in the half-dark of the city, sees the way their body clumsily moves as they heft themself into the air on tattered wings and he shudders.

  
It is his pity for them, the bugs they once were, that looses his nail when he must, but the sentry is not aware of him. Down there, far below in the fountain plaza, something small and white shines, a pale glow that makes him sit forward on his bench and peer downwards.

  
The little wanderer is there.

  
He wonders at their story, watches them flit with expert grace around the husk sentry’s clumsy nail swings until it falls into the dark water below, dispatched with ease. Their nail glints as they wipe it off and stow it, pittering up to the fountain.

  
It is a curious thing.

  
He stares down at it himself, at the ‘Hollow Knight’ cast in marble, at the plaque before it. At the wanderer who looks up at the stone, a moment of rain soaking their shell in silence.

  
Quirrel squints. There is… something. The Knight and the Wanderer, his brain struggles to _recall_ , but seeing them side-by-side, part of him _knows_ …

  
The Wanderer bows to the statue. They fiddle with their cloak, and depart, silent as they came, side-stepping a still-twitching limb of the sentry as they vanish back into the shadows, back into the depths of this ruined kingdom, but something still glows on the edge of the fountain where they lingered.

  
It is a flower.

  
Pale and white and luminous, placed before the Knight’s stone cloak, its petals bruised by the city’s tears.

  
_… Voiceless, but not unthinking._

  
His eyes widen, memories whispering back to his mind as he understands.

  
The flower. An offering to their _kin_.


	2. messaline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herrah does some weaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost at the end of the daily writes week; this one was written a couple days ago in one form, but got a tune up today
> 
> prompt taken from a list [[here](https://hollowthyme.tumblr.com/post/181884395238/writing-challenge-prompt-list)]
> 
> i'm glad you guys enjoyed the first one! these are gonna be all over the place in topic, characters etc, so I hope you like this one too! 
> 
> Characters: Herrah, Hornet (baby edition)  
> Tags: (none needed)

 

> 9\. messaline - soft lightweight silk with a satin weave

 

It was hard to weave for a bug you would never know.

How would she grow? What would she be like, what would suit the life ahead of her?

Herrah could only guess.

Only candlelight lit the room, a dozen of them illuminating her loom with flickering orange light as she spun and spun, her work swift and _quiet_ as could be. Her little Hornet slept nearby, curled in a basket of silken blankets. A toy needle lay next to the basket, along with a half-mangled stuffed weaver her daughter insisted on dragging everywhere, its stitching sorely tested by her daughter’s games. Her waking hours were too precious to waste on spinning; only while she slept did Herrah weave, and when she woke she would cherish every second, every memory something she tucked away and cherished because it would be _worth_ it.

If her daughter never needed to worry about golden light haunting her sleep, never needed to see a fellow weaver fall into irreparable madness, never see a cavern plagued and shining sickly gold, anything the Wyrm offered would be worth it, no matter the cost to herself.

Trading herself for her people, for the daughter who she had never expected to love so deeply. All she had expected was a child to carry on her rule, for even if she did not like the Wyrm she had not been able to deny that something must be done to keep her people from death, and that a god’s broodling would make a worthy successor. And then the little egg had hatched, a daughter with a shell of perfect ebony and dark, wide eyes and perfect little claws, and she could not help but love her.

Even if her daughter was sometimes fey and strange with white magic spilling from her claws, she was also fierce and fearless and already so _proud_ and Herrah could not help but imagine what a handful she would be as soon as she could do more than toddle about.

Not that she would ever see it.

She paused her work, reaching over to pat Hornet’s flawless little mask.

Herrah did not have the time to grieve the future she would never have with her. She would give her what she could, leave for her her words and guidance, and maybe a few memories of a mother who loved her.

It was all she could do.

She kept her focus was on her loom, on the red silk she worked tirelessly through her nights, spinning cloak after cloak, bigger and bigger, so that no matter how she grew, or where the future took her, Herrah would always be with her. Protecting her with tough, light silk that would never fray and a wicked sharp needle, because Herrah was _practical_. Even in the best of times, Deepnest was a dangerous place.

A quiet chirp roused her from her rhythm. Hornet looked up at her with sleepy eyes, holding out her little claws. Her long nights wore hard on her, her legs stiff from weaving and weaving, but Herrah reached for her without hesitation, plucking her from her nest and tucking her close.

Soon, she would have all the time in the world to rest. For now, Hornet was awake, and Herrah carried her with her, tickling her with her claws, the cloaks left folded neat and shimmering in the candlelight.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a request? Liked this drabble? 
> 
> visit me on tumblr at hollowthyme and let me know! 
> 
> thank you guys, hopefully i'll see you soon! <3


End file.
